


Misery and Ecstasy

by theunavenged (sulahnnehn)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Foreplay, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulahnnehn/pseuds/theunavenged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” —Oscar Wilde</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as an attempt to write a smutfic but then turned super-angsty instead. Stay tuned though—there be smut in the next chapter ;)

He hates her. Despises her. _Loathes and abhors_ her.

She’s just like _him_. Batman. Bruce Wayne. Partner, father, _traitor._ Jason clenches his fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms as the all-too-familiar rage burns through him. Both of them, throwing cash around like they’re playing a game of fucking Monopoly. Both of them, frauds. Bruce, always hiding behind the mask of Gotham’s sweetheart, with that shit-eating grin he plasters on his face, the one his moronic sycophants swoon over like a pack of horny teenagers. And then there’s his _literal_ mask, the one he claims is his “true face”—it’s really just an excuse for a grown man to play dress-up and fulfill some twisted power fantasy. But he has managed to convince himself that he genuinely cares about the plight of Gotham City, and what’s worse, he has convinced his disciples that his cause is just, one worth suffering for… worth dying for…

And _her_ , Camila. _Mila_. The 18-year-old college brat who’s waiting for him in a suite at the end of the hallway. She has an apartment in Gotham Heights—a lavish penthouse that most Gothamites would kill for—but she insisted they meet here at the Regency instead. Mila always gets what she wants. _Always._ And if what she wants isn’t offered up to her on a silver platter, she takes what she wants, as if the world was indebted to her for something.

“ _La Princesita_ ” of the Caracas Cartel, an empire built from bones and white powder. The DEA will tell you it’s her brothers who rule that world, but Mila rules her brothers. Jason has seen past her coy smile, her coquettish manner; he has glimpsed the shadows lurking beneath her porcelain veneer of innocence. He knows that if given the right opportunity, the little princess could be more ruthless than the kings...

He arrives at the corner suite. He pushes back his hood. He sighs, he knocks.

“Coming!” a honey-soaked voice sings from behind the locked door. Jason’s clenching his jaw now as the anger bubbles up again—honey never tasted so bitter.

He swore he’d never return to this godforsaken city, yet here he is, still losing the fight with Gotham’s goddamn gravity. Because Mila asked him to come. She “misses him terribly,” so he volunteered to oversee a weapons deal for her brothers and was on a flight back to the states the following week.

He hates himself for that. Loyal. Always fucking loyal, like a dog. A bulldog bred only for the pit, prized only for its bite. When will he learn that his masters never give two shits about him? When will he turn and bite the hands that feed?

The door finally swings open. Mila greets him with a grin and he forgets to breathe. He looks her up and down, from her lips to her toes. She's wearing a pair of black stilettos… and nothing else.

“ _Amorcito_!” she squeals like an excited child before throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. All of that rage and anger and hatred he was feeding from—gone, in an instant. Sucked right out of him, like the air from his lungs, by an unexpected kiss.

He doesn't know what he expected from their little rendezvous, but certainly not _this_. She's drop-dead gorgeous—petite but curvy, with long black hair tossed over her shoulders, dark nipples on smooth brown skin, pink satin lips and glittering brown eyes—and she wants _him_? The broken boy covered in scars; the pathetic stray she nursed back to health.

He glances sidelong down the empty hallway just before she pulls him inside the candlelit suite. His heart’s turning somersaults in his chest as he slips his arms around her back, his mouth opening to hers against his better judgement. What was it that Don Diego, the most dangerous man in Venezuela, said to him soon after they met? Something along the lines of, “you touch my sister and I'll chop your fucking nuts off.” Heh. Always the doe-eyed idiot when someone pretends to care about him. Such an easy mark for people like Bruce and Mila. Just give him a pat on the head, tell him what a good dog he is, and he will gladly suffer for you, wag his tail while you tear out his heart with red-hot pincers.

He was broken when he met Mila, his walls smashed to dust by fists and photographs. She peered beneath his skin, down to his naked soul, and he was helpless to stop her. He needs to stop her now, before she digs her claws any deeper. When she leaves him—and she _will_ abandon him, like everyone else—she’ll take a chunk of his soul with her. So much of himself has already been cut away, he doesn’t know how much more he can withstand.

 _Impulsive_. _Reckless_. He has always rushed headfirst into danger without any regard for his own safety. It’s what got him replaced and nearly killed. But he has survived hell once already, so why change now? Especially when something— _someone_ —he wants so much is literally within his grasp.

His hands graze along her sides, tracing the curves of her hips with his palms, savoring her warm skin beneath his fingers, wishing that this moment would never end. She responds to his touch by running her fingertips up the nape of his neck then burying her hand in his hair. The gentle tug on his scalp sends an electric shiver down his spine. She cradles his crown in the palm of her hand and pulls herself closer to him, kissing him deeper, rubbing her mound against his growing hardness. He gasps softly under her lips, silently begging her for more, praying she won’t leave him unfulfilled—praying she won’t leave him at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Her hands are at his sides now, clutching the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upward, along with his t-shirt beneath it. He helps her pull them both up over his head, his breath quickening as her knuckles brush against his exposed skin.

“Why do you always wear this thing?” she giggles before tossing the bundle of clothing aside.

 _Because I don’t need a new outfit for every day of the damn year_ , he might reply if he thought about her closet back in Venezuela (which was roughly the size of the apartment he grew up in). Or maybe he would snark about those stupid hats she always wears, like everyday’s the Kentucky-fucking-Derby for Her Highness. But right now his brain’s preoccupied with how vulnerable he’s feeling, his scarred body exposed to her like this, so instead he mutters: “I dunno, I like it.”

All of the scars across his chest and back and arms prickle in the cool air, reminding him of _what_ he is, what happened to him. Then suddenly he’s clenching his fists again as a pang of anger hits him and he hates her for making him feel like this. So weak, so ashamed, so unprepared.

She seems blissfully unaware of his feelings because she’s studying him with a satisfied smile on her lips and a hungry look in her eyes; teasing him with her tiny waist and perky tits and that single strip of black hair along her shaved pussy. She grips both of his arms, squeezing his biceps, pressing her naked body against his, making his cock so damn hard it hurts. He grunts under his breath. Even while standing in 5-inch heels she barely reaches his chin but he’s powerless to resist her and she knows it. She slips her tongue between his lips and slides her hands down the length of his arms to his trembling fists. Then she massages his knuckles with deft fingers until his muscles relax and his fingers unfurl for her.

His hands belong to her now, so she guides his left hand to the hollow curve of her back, introduces his right hand to her breast; _God_ he loves the feel of it, soft-as-satin, cupped in his leathery hand. His hand, with its gnarled joints and hammered-crooked fingers, his hand doesn’t deserve to hold something so delicate but her nipple is stiff against his palm, begging for his thumb’s attention. She’s clinging to him while he rubs circles around the pearl of flesh, while he brushes his thumb across it, while he pinches it between two fingers. Her nails press down into his skin, her mouth opens against his and she moans. Because of _him_. The thought of her enjoying his touch is almost enough to send him over the edge. Almost.

She pulls him deeper into the suite, closer to the plate-glass windows overlooking Gotham, where the city’s neon lights are streaming through, bathing the darkened room in garish colors. They step off the hardwood floor and onto a plush white rug, then she’s in his arms again.

Her lips turn their attention from his mouth to his ruined cheek. When she places a tender kiss atop his brand he flinches away. It’s a strange sensation, to be touched there with such affection, but she holds him tight to her small body and somehow he trusts her. Like the night she cradled him in her arms while he cried against her shoulder until morning—he feels safe in her embrace. Her tongue works magic as it traces the vile ‘J’; an alchemist turning something worthless into gold. His body is tense and he’s trembling again but he _likes_ the way it feels. She’s scratching away the Clown’s twisted signature and leaving her own mark in its place.

Her lips move from his cheek to his neck, trailing kisses along their path. “Mmm, _mi amor_ ,” she purrs before pulling herself up to her toes and sucking at his neck. He tightens his grip on her ass and forces her body even closer to his as he inhales a shuddering gasp. He never knew that someone could—or would—make him feel so amazing, and for the first time in years he thinks he’s happy to still be alive.

She nips at his earlobe then sucks away the sting. “I’ve missed you and your stupid hoodie,” she giggles in his ear as her hand slides down his torso to cup his groin. He gasps again. His cock’s throbbing against his jeans, weeping, pleading for release as that painful, unsatiated desire surges through him. “You’re so good to me baby, coming back here to see me,” she whimpers. “I want to be good to you now. Let me say thank you.”

He feels her fingers unbuttoning his jeans. Sweat’s beading on the back of his neck—it’s suddenly hotter than hell in this suite. He swallows hard as his heart starts racing for the door.

He’s _scared shitless_ of what’s about to happen.

Yeah, he’s just shy of 18; maybe he should’ve fucked _dozens_ of partners by now, but spending a year of your life tied up in the bowels of a madhouse really puts a crimp in your average teen social life.

She unzips his jeans and pushes them down off of his hips.

He has jerked off plenty of times since his escape, and right now he’s harder than diamond, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to perform when the spotlight’s on him. At least not to her standards. Definitely not to her standards.

Her fingers hook into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He’s got serious issues. Take the incessant ringing in his head, the result of the bullet that was centimeters away from leaving him a vegetable. Or maybe it’s from the crowbar cracking open his skull like a walnut. Both are fucking plausible.

Sometimes he can’t take it. It gets under his skin; pulses through his body like the shock from a goddamn cattle prod. Sets his teeth on edge, makes him so angry that all he wants to do is hurt someone. To watch them suffer like he has. That’s fucked up. _He’s_ fucked up.

She tugs his boxer briefs down to his thighs, biting her lower lip, smiling as his erection pops out.

Joker ruined him, rendered him practically useless, robbed him of everything he held dear. Why not take this away from him too? Make him a joke to all of his future partners. The Clown would piss himself laughing about that one.

She sinks to her knees in front of him, her burning brown eyes never leaving his. He’s holding his breath when she grips his thigh with one hand, his shaft in the other. She smiles up at him then licks his cock from its hilt to its swollen tip, her tongue circling that sensitive spot until his eyes roll back and he moans.

She wraps her soft, sweet lips around him, and all of his worries vanish the instant she swallows him down to the back of her throat.


End file.
